


Those Who Favor Fire

by katnisseverdeeen



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, F/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katnisseverdeeen/pseuds/katnisseverdeeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Teach me, then!” Katniss Everdeen stands before me, the muscles in her shoulders tense. Draped on her slender frame is the powder blue dress she had worn at the Reaping, though her dark hair is in a state of complete abandonment, and falls down her back in disheveled waves. </p><p>“What?” I retort in complete confusion, setting down the teacup I’ve filled with liquor on the floor beside me and leaning back to examine the girl: she’s thin, too thin, to survive, I think. She’ll be dead in an instant, and with no angle to work, few will remember her. I feel an unfamiliar pang of sadness somewhere deep within me, and I have to wonder if there’s a chance I can escape the viewing room unnoticed, so I won’t have to witness the girl’s death in gruesome detail.</p><p>Katniss throws her arms to her side, her palms curled into fists. Her lips have been plastered together into a thin white line, which she releases when she spits at me: “Teach me to be desirable.” There was a defiance to her, a fire within her, that I realized then I appreciated. She did seem to liven things up around here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Favor Fire

“Teach me, then!” Katniss Everdeen stands before me, the muscles in her shoulders tense. Draped on her slender frame is the powder blue dress she had worn at the Reaping, though her dark hair is in a state of complete abandonment, and falls down her back in disheveled waves. 

She has rejected the seat I placed opposite of me instead to wear a path in the rug from her constant pacing. Now and then Katniss pauses, either from exhaustion or frustration, and taps one of her bare feet against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. A hostile expression overcomes her distinguishable features, and she will glare at me with a scowl on her lips that drives me mad.

“What?” I retort in complete confusion, setting down the teacup I’ve filled with liquor on the floor beside me and leaning back to examine the girl: she’s thin, too thin, to survive, I think. She’ll be dead in an instant, and with no angle to work, few will remember her. I feel an unfamiliar pang of sadness somewhere deep within me, and I have to wonder if there’s a chance I can escape the viewing room unnoticed, so I won’t have to witness the girl’s death in gruesome detail.

Katniss throws her arms to her side, her palms curled into fists. Her lips have been plastered together into a thin white line, which she releases when she spits at me: “Teach me to be desirable.” There was a defiance to her, a fire within her, that I realized then I appreciated. She did seem to liven things up around here.

And although Katniss looks more serious than she has ever been, I can’t help but find the whole situation laughable: she stands before me, a child, in clothes she has worn for the past few afternoons, her hair a mess and her face pale, with death looming over her like an unavoidable shadow. She looks almost mad, with her features contorted into anger, her fists balled, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

When she turns to leave, collecting her stiff leather loafers from the floor and making a beeline towards the door, I stand and reach out to her. “No, Katniss, c’mon.” I argue as she crosses the room, furious and self-conscious. “Stop.” I call out to the girl in a voice much deeper than I am accustomed to hearing.

“You want to learn how to be desirable, sweetheart?” I ask, walking towards her with slow, measured steps. She’s standing with her back against the door, frozen in place, her chest heaving up and down. “There’s a few secrets to the trade.” I tell her with a crooked smile. I’m surprised the girl hasn’t bolted to her sleeping quarters out of repulsion. “You have to know desire, first off.”

Katniss shakes her head. “I haven’t -” The words refuse to leave her throat, and I can see her struggling to verbalize this confession. I hold up a hand, signaling that she does not have to, and I notice her shoulders relax just the slightest bit. “Not ever.” She whispered, a mortified expression crossing her face.

I sigh and shrug. “Then there’s not much I can do, Miss Everdeen.”

The girl shakes her head, stepping forward. I’m surprised at her sudden brave streak: the gap between us has become smaller now, and she stands with a defiant expression on her brow. “No. I asked to be taught.” There’s a pause. “So teach me.”

Jesus Christ, I think, wondering when the exact moment she’d change her mind would be.

Before I can voice this concern, she’s closing the distance between us, pressing her mouth against mine with a marble-like hardness: her lips are cold and unmoving. Her slender arms remain clutching her sides, and she’s on her tip-toes just to reach me.

I feel wrong, because she’s just a kid, and she’s so scared. Or perhaps it’s because I’m a treacherous old drunk capable of murder, who can’t sleep through the night unless he’s passed out, and even then, when he wakes up, it’s in a fit of tears and screams from the night terrors. I’m the shell of a man, and she has not even reached womanhood.

She pulls back, and I’m prepared for her to call me out on all of this, if not more, but Katniss just pushes me backwards, further into the room. I am standing in front of the chair now, and she nudges me into it. “Teach me.” She insists of me, going to the buttons on her blouse.

“Alright.” I surrender, and the flash of a smile crosses her lips: Katniss was victorious. I raise a palm to her cheek and pull her in. She stands before me, bending down, and I decide to allow it for the moment: it was best to take it slow. “Relax, sweetheart. Just relax.” I whisper before I lean in and kiss her. This time, her lips are less like stone: her pecks become longer, and messier. When Katniss places her hands on either shoulder of mine, I pull her down, so she’s now straddling me.

She gasps in surprise when I lick her lower lip. With time, Katniss allows entrance, and this back-and-forth is so foreign to her. She approaches kissing like a power struggle, fighting me for control, and I allow it after a while. Her hands slide down, working on the button just below the collar.

I feel a lump rising in my throat. “It isn’t going to be pretty, sweetheart.”

She looks at me, surprised at the sudden softness I was exhibiting when I was, just moments ago, so gruff and coarse. When she kisses me this time, it’s not a battle for control, but a gesture of reassurance. And so we proceed.


End file.
